Tuesday, November 19, 2013

On Thanksgiving Day, my children will be with me. Friday, Saturday, and Sunday following, they will be with their dad. On that Saturday, my kids will join the boisterous family celebration complete with baked ham, sweet potato casserole, veggies, rolls, and a variety of desserts including but not limited to my former mother-in-law's caramel cake. Take one bite and you die a delicious death. Perfection.

So, the point here is I will be alone on Saturday, November 30th. Lots of people are alone during the holidays, but my therapist is opposed to my being by myself that day. Why? Because she knows me. She knows I will try so damned hard to be cheerful, to keep going, to avoid languishing in bed under a pile of covers with my dog at my feet. She knows I will try. She also knows my trying might not be enough.

Why? Because I know his girlfriend will sit at my place at the table. I know her children will sit beside my children, and they will have a grand time. Without me. My therapist told me to find someone to spend time with on that Saturday. Lunch with a friend. Movie night. Dinner and a movie while tucked cozily on my couch. Anything besides the way it will actually be. Me on the couch watching Sherlock, Loki, and Edward Cullen. Me eating too many Cheerios. Me. God, I sound so horribly narcissistic.

Trouble is, my best friend will be at the beach. My other close friend will be visiting her husband's family down south. My other dear friend lives eight hours away. My own family? Don't get me started. Trust me, it's not pretty.

I do not wish to disappoint my therapist, but this is where I am. I don't have a passel of friends and acquaintances. I make a handful of close friends and love them with all my heart.

My therapist may be worried about a repeat of October 6, 2012. My attempt to end my life failed but the 200 pills took days to exit my system even when spurred on by bag after bag of fluids.

I guess I could go somewhere. Be among people. A crowded mall. A full movie theater. Would that count? Ugh, but it will be the weekend after Thanksgiving. The crowds...*shudders*

Maybe I will go out of town. Birmingham has a lovely museum. I wonder if they will be open.

If staying alone is the problem, then perhaps traveling, albeit alone, is the solution.

What do you think? Is a museum trip just the medicine the doctor ordered?

Monday, November 18, 2013

I have been crying going on ten hours now. This morning, I discovered my ex-husband had seamlessly transferred our twenty-year-old dream of going to England and Scotland to his new love. They have a "list" now of the places they want to go. I stumbled upon this bit of information by my own curiosity. Stupid, stupid me.

I long to wander the moors of Scotland. I long to sit at an outdoor cafe in London. I long to visit and pay homage at Jane Austen's grave. I long to spend the night (or ten!) in a Scottish castle.

I long to be no longer alone. After two and a half years of separation and now a divorce, I have had plenty of time to contemplate my mistakes and to try to heal. Am I healed? No. Will I ever be? I don't know. All I know is I miss mattering to someone.

I long to be at peace with God. Raised in a Baptist home--I won't call it Christian, because no follower of Christ would do what my parents did to me and my brother and sister--I was taught there was but one way to God. I was taught to fear Hell. I accepted Christ at age eight out of abject fear for my eternal life. This is not what God wished for me. I know that now.

I love God. Not the bearded old white man in the sky who terrified me as a child. But a God who truly IS love, a God who is in everything and everyone, a God who is in the seen and the unseen. I can appreciate the kindness and love of Jesus, but he feels a bit out of my reach, to be honest. I feel closer to the Energy which I envision as God...golden, sparkling, warm, loving, comforting, everywhere.

I love gazing at paintings and figurines portraying Ganesh, Saraswati, Kali, Athena, Aphrodite, Persephone, and Nyx. I feel love flowing from them. I feel acceptance. Do I worship them? No. Do I talk to them? Yes.

Maybe I am strange. Maybe I am crazy. Maybe I should stop worrying about being odd and start focusing on what fills my deep longing for God.

Longing fills me, and the feelings this emotion evokes are emptiness and fear. Fear I will never know anything different. Fear I will always be searching. Hoping. Questing. Seeking.

Tears continue to stream down my cheeks, and longing grips my heart. I don't know what to do, but I'm going to simply sit. Be still. Be quiet. Maybe an answer will come.

Sunday, November 17, 2013

Granted, we were separated for two and a half years, so some of these things, I've missed far longer than others. And to be honest, we were only happy for the first six years of our twenty year marriage...a miscarriage and our inability to grieve as a couple shook the foundation of our relationship. We were never the same again.

Still, we carried on for fourteen more years, raising a daughter and a son.They alone made the rocky journey a priceless endeavor.

What do I miss from those six years of marriage?

1. I miss having someone to fight me for the covers.
2. I miss complaining about his cold feet.
3. I miss cuddling on the couch and watching action movies.
4. I miss going to chick-flick movies and listening to him whine.
5. I miss him eating the entire bowl of Cool Whip I'd bought for a recipe.
6. I miss him eating the last of the ice cream.
7. I miss complaining because he put the toilet paper on backwards.
8. I miss eating his awesome chili.
9. I miss someone coming home who's happy to see me.
10. I miss cooking something disastrous and him lying and saying it's delicious.
11. I miss him saying that I'm beautiful even though I know I'm not.
12. I miss being the one to fret when he's late coming home.
13. I miss being his parents' third daughter.
14. I miss him complaining because I read too much.
15. I miss his noisy EA Sports video games.
16. I miss date nights.
17. I miss the way he used to play with my hair.
18. I miss sleeping in on Sundays.
19. I miss being late for work because he made me late.
20. I miss being the girl he picked.

Postscript. When we were twelve years old, we met for the very first time in study hall. On that same day, I made a friend. One of my best. You know her as Bambi. Well, at break every day, Bambi always, without fail, bought a 3 Musketeers candy bar. She would take one bite then dig out the fluffy insides. I honestly thought it was kind of gross but never said so. I preferred to eat my 3 Musketeers in a more dainty fashion. Know what sucks? I can't even LOOK at a 3 Musketeers candy bar anymore much less eat one. So yeah, she took him. But did she have to take the damn candy bar, too?

16. Pretend I'm a Barbie Styling Head. Curl hair. Play with make-up.17. Eat more Cheerios.18. Play with my Tarot cards. (If I can find them. Gave it up for him. Stupid me.)19. Write free verse poetry. One must pay homage to that hideous Christmas sweatshirt of yore.
20. Tweet.

P.S. I will be showering, brushing my teeth, and walking the dog at appropriate intervals. LOL.

Ah, the holidays. Sometimes deliriously happy. Sometimes so lonely as to
wrench your heart from your chest. Looks like this year, mine will be a
wee bit of both.

My two children will be with me on Thanksgiving Day,
but they will be with their dad and his family the Saturday following
for the big celebration. I've been sharing Thanksgiving with his family
since I was nineteen years old. I'm forty now. Twenty-one years of Easter, Thanksgiving, and Christmas dinners. I wish I'd relished them more when I had the chance.

So, why don't I just hang out with my own biological family? My childhood was rife with abuse, and I stopped playing pretend we're a happy family a long time ago. I don't have a relationship with
my dad. My mom and I speak occasionally but never with any depth. My
brother has his own family. My sister, who still plays pretend, will spend the day with our
parents. They all live a few states away from me.

Bottom line. Extended
family holiday celebrations are now a thing of the past for me.

I will
miss the boisterous dinners, the rousing games of Bingo, the walks out
in the cold, and the marathon of weepy Hallmark movies on the TV.

I will
miss my family.

I know. Technically, they belong to him, but they've
been mine for so long...Mom, Dad, two sisters plus their husbands, and a
gorgeous furry niece/King Charles Cavalier Spaniel.

Someone else (his
girlfriend) will sit in my place at the table. Two extra chairs will be
added for her kids.

And me? I'll be on my own. Maybe I should make a list of fun things to do to pass the time. So long as eating too much Rocky Road is on the list, I should survive.

Saturday, November 9, 2013

I had big plans for NaNoWriMo, intending to write a novel inspired by my past. Turned out, writing my personal story took a huge toll within just two days. The word count required coupled with the vulnerability the story itself inspired broke me. I cried. A lot. I fell apart. I slept more than I should to escape the memories my work had unleashed.

I decided to shelve my idea for a book until a later date.

Then, I dreamed of Little Me.

I woke up and knew I had to give her story another chance to be written. Scared, I decided to just write stream of consciousness to get myself started. I wrote about my fear and misgivings. I wrote about where I am right now. Freshly divorced and working so damn hard to figure out who I am. And then, her story started to come out onto the screen. In free verse.

I haven't written in free verse since college. At first, I fretted. This wasn't what I wanted. I wanted the story to come out like a novel. Beginning. Middle. End. Not this string of seemingly unconnected free verse poems. But then I remembered I was writing this story for Little Me, and if this was how she remembered her pain, then this would be the way I would write her story.

Here is one of the poems:

Peering backwards Shadowy images An unwilling momma A monster who grins. Like fireflies little moments Brother and me Pretend we are safe.

Little Me and I have a long way to go before her story is finished. That's okay. It's taken a long time to get to where we are...ready to write. The telling will happen in its right timing.

Wednesday, October 30, 2013

National Novel Writing Month kicks off this Friday. Are you in? I'm giving it a go even though I'm not super confident I can finish. Why? Because I'm not writing a fun erotic romance. Instead, I am writing a novel about a woman living with the effects of childhood sexual abuse, something which is all too familiar for me. This will be a much lengthier project, too. I am accustomed to writing short stories and novellas. For NaNoWriMo, the goal is to write 50,000 words in a month. That's a lot of words.

The title of my book will be The Broken Doll, a metaphor for the way my heroine, Poppy Blake, views herself. Here's a short synopsis:

For years, the past has taunted Poppy Blake with the things she couldn't remember. Ancient wounds have a way of showing up anyway, though, and Poppy knows in her soul something went very wrong in her childhood. Her fear of sex, along with her obsession with her children's safety, drives twin wedges between her and her husband, Evan. In a relationship marred by tension and anger, she clings to her marriage with a desperation which suffocates Evan, pushing him farther and farther away from her.

When Poppy rediscovers an old, beloved doll, a lock clicks open inside her brain, and memories, good and bad, come tumbling out, some fully formed, some mere fragments. Old moments of horror fall to the floor of her heart, side by side with recollections of love and grace.

Estranged from both of her parents, Poppy looks to her younger siblings for insights. Her brother, Jimmy, having made peace with his past, has no desire to go back into the darkness. Her sister, Lily, close to both of their parents, refuses to claim a childhood fraught with abuse, choosing instead to live with manufactured memories of sugar-sweet perfection.

Alone on her journey of remembrance, Poppy begins to experience mystical visions. When her younger self appears to her and speaks four little words, "Daddy did it again," she must challenge everything she thought she knew about herself and her life.

Just two more days until NaNoWriMo begins. What will you be writing? If you'd like to add me to your buddy list, you can find me here.

Sunday, October 27, 2013

I haven't written much of anything this week. Every time I try to write Peter and Pippa's story, the words come out in clumps that are as intriguing and compelling as lumpy oatmeal. Figuring out the reason for this icky, sticky case of writer's block isn't hard to do. Him.

A couple of weeks ago, he said to me, "You know our marriage ended ten years ago."

No. No, I didn't know that. Ten years ago, I was still madly in love with him. Ten years ago, I was fighting to figure out why after ten years of marriage, I still struggled with painful intercourse. In spite of my pain, I endured because I thought I didn't have a choice. Three years ago, when the flashbacks started, I had my answer. Years of childhood sexual abuse left me fearful of and unable to enjoy sex. It's only in recent months that I've found I can write about sex in the context of my erotic romance short stories and novellas. I believe my ability write these tales is a good sign. :-)

Last night, I asked him a stupid question. "When did you stop loving me? Ten years ago? Fifteen?"

He replied, "I can't really pinpoint it."

Well, ask a stupid question, get an answer you don't want.

Why does this bother me so much? Because I feel stupid and pathetic. I loved, lived with, and made love with a man who didn't love me for more than a decade. *face palm*

Okay, so I'm thinking of the Hanging Man in Tarot and how he challenges us to look at things from a different perspective. How can I view my ex's words in a new way?

*light bulb* I have felt tremendous guilt for not being the woman he needed and wanted. Hmm, so if he didn't love me anyway, do I really need to feel guilty?

Saturday, October 26, 2013

Ever noticed how some people want to hold you down no matter what you do? I have one of those people in my life. Oh, yes, you know him. My ex.

In an effort to begin building a healthy dynamic for my children, her children, him, her, and me (emphasis on the kiddos), I sent him an email expressing my gratitude for all that he does. He's a good dad, even if he doesn't like me very much. I didn't mention the latter. Instead, I poured my heart out, letting him know I am grateful for his support and his adoration of our children. I know he would do anything for them. A letter meant as a gift, an olive branch. I wished him joy.

I also sent Bambi a message on Facebook letting her know I appreciated her being so sweet to my kids. I wished her joy.

She ignored my message. He replied with a magnanimous, "Okay. Thank you."

WTF? I hadn't expected him to respond with a letter of his own, but it would've been nice to hear, "Thank you for being a good mother to my children."

I immediately fell face first in the dirt. That's where I belong, right? I am less than them, because I have an illness. I have a past. I am flawed. Damaged goods.

With a mouth full of dirt, I cried. I could've made Mississippi mud pies.

I texted a couple of friends, 'cause that's what a girl does when her ex is being an ass. One replied succicntly, "dick." The other had a bit more to add, reminding me to take a moment to celebrate my journey and my willingness to experience growth. "They're just not on your wavelength." Simple. Sad. True.

"Do I keep trying?" I wanted to know. I could see her shaking her head.

"Cordial. Aim for cordial."

Cordial, it is. While it would've been nice for the three of us grown-ups to create a healthy dynamic in which we are all open, honest, and caring, that's just not in the cards.

Wednesday, October 23, 2013

On Monday morning at nine o'clock, I told my therapist the truth. I felt amazing. Strong. Stable. I did. Until three o'clock this afternoon. I'm not sure what happened. Thoughts of him and Bambi have battered my brain since I discovered their relationship, but last Friday, after my O.M.G. moment, serenity and happiness settled within me, welcome companions.

This afternoon, I am faltering.

No worries. I'm not contemplating an exit strategy this time around. But neither am I feeling amazing, strong, or stable.

Oh...

Now, I remember.

I read something on Twitter about authors assigning character flaws to their characters as opposed to allowing flaws to develop organically. This reminded me of his list of reasons why he wanted a divorce. None are painless to recall. Each and every one sent me on a one way guilt trip. The one on my mind today involves my illness. Bipolar.

Why? Because my symptoms, and their effect on him, played a vital role in his decision to separate and divorce. I have PTSD on top of bipolar, so my ability to travel, to be around people, or to enter stressful situations is highly limited.

He wants to travel. Try new things. Meet new people. Branch out.

I like to stay close to home, though I'm no longer trapped by my agoraphobia.

I guess maybe I held him back.

Thing is, I haven't always been this way. Used to be, I could go to concerts, travel, talk to strangers like they were my oldest friends.

So what happened? What changed?

I changed. Looking back, I think it must have been after my miscarriage in 1998. The loss devastated me, and the need to conceive again consumed me. When I found out I was pregnant in November of that same year, I was ecstatic and terrified. My baby became my whole world, long before she entered this world. The fear never went away.

I now have two beautiful children, and while the fear of losing them is not as overwhelming as it was when they were babies, it still lives and breathes inside of me. Maybe that terror simply transmuted itself into something more, something bigger. I became afraid of pretty much everything. Going a mile down the road to the Dollar General for a gallon of milk requires a degree of self-encouragement which most would find strange. For a long time, walking down the driveway to the mailbox nearly sent me into a full blown panic attack. Traveling terrifies me. Every second, I am anticipating sudden death.

I don't know if I will ever change back. Can I return to the me I once was, outgoing, exuberant, playful? I'm not sure. One thing is certain, it's too late to change my marriage, to save it. Still, I will keep taking steps forward even knowing there will be days like today. Days when I go back two spaces and feel like I'm starting over.

About a week ago, a frog made its way into our house. I captured it in a jar and set him free in my backyard but not before wondering why he'd chosen to enter my home. My first thought was forward movement. I searched Google for the meaning of a frog in the house. Sure enough, a frog is a good omen and can symbolize forward movement. I stumbled today. Fell on my ass. Tomorrow, tomorrow maybe I'll take a leap forward once more.

Monday, October 21, 2013

This morning, after I'd walked the dog, packed my lovely daughter's lunch, and persuaded my darling son to face yet another Monday, I opened my Kindle dashboard and swooned. In just over three days, 1,319 readers have downloaded "The Vampire's Submissive" to their Kindles or Kindle apps.

My lovely readers, you have placed my story at #3 on the Kindle Bestseller list for Free Erotica. In addition, it is currently #39 on the list for Genre Fiction. When I decided to offer Katy and Jackson's story for free, I thought to myself, "Wouldn't it be nice if it made it to #100 for Free Erotica?" Dear readers, you have made my day, my month, and my year! Thank you ever so much! *Mwah!*

If you haven't yet picked up your copy, there's still time. "The Vampire's Submissive" is free through October 22nd. If you do pick it up, I'd love for you to leave a review on Amazon. I love hearing my readers' thoughts.

Friday, October 18, 2013

So you know those moments when your Soul lines up with the brilliance that is the Divine and you suddenly see things in a vibrant, new way? I had one of those moments today.

I'm a very visual person, and in my mind, I've been seeing my almost ex-husband and my ex-dear friend in all manner of passionate clinches. I've seen them laughing with my children and her children. I've felt tremendous pain. As I told my therapist this week, my heart quite literally feels broken. I could feel it as a very real entity and it hurt.

Then, earlier this afternoon, I received a moment of clarity. I saw him. Happy. I saw her. Happy. I saw my kids with them. Happy. I saw her kids with all of them. Happy.

I saw me. Miserable.

I'm the only unhappy one. Just me. All by my lonesome wallowing in despair and bawling my eyes out over something I cannot change. Ever. No amount of self-loathing will bring him back. No amount of contemplating death as the end to my pain will change things. I have chosen unhappiness. No one chose it for me.

And now, I choose to change my mind.

I choose to let them go. I choose to let him be. I choose to let her be. I choose to let my children embrace whatever happiness and fun they may find with him, her, and her kids.

I choose to stand here in the very center of My Life and declare, "I choose Happiness."

I first typed the title, "Letting Him Go," but then I realized he's only half of the challenge.

*Bambi is the other half. My dear friend, my confidante, my BFF through my teen years, my bridesmaid, and now my nightmare. Okay, so maybe "nightmare" is a bit strong, but how else do I describe the person whose image I cannot get out of my brain? The recurring mental vision of the two of them together is like a carving knife to my heart.

Now with the very real picture of them playing happy family with my kids and hers ingrained in my mind, I ache all over from the betrayal. He won't tell me exactly when they started dating. Do I really need to know? No, probably not. I know it was before he said he wanted a divorce. I'm not stupid.

After two and a half years of separation, I shouldn't struggle with this. Or, so he says. What he tends to forget is how hard I've fought to let him go and how often I've failed. On February 14, 2012 (Happy Fucking Valentine's Day to me), I found myself in the ER. I'd entered a mixed-state (bipolar) and death was looking pretty damn good.

When I walked into the inpatient facility, I noticed the few changes made to the nurse's station and open sitting room. Yes, I'd been there before in August, 2004. Collapsing into an uncomfortable plastic chair, I waited for the nurse to give me the welcome speech. What I really wanted was for someone to give me something so I could sleep.

Mixed state is not a party, my friends. Imagine feeling like you are worth as much as yesterday's half-eaten Big Mac, while infused with a gallon of coffee, all poised and ready to leap off the nearest bridge.

Unfortunately, there would be no medicine for me. Ten o'clock in the evening, and the doctors were long gone. I didn't sleep. I paced, my unattractive green slip-proof socks soundless on the ugly tile floor. Five days and some powerful meds later, I was free. I drove myself to Wal-Mart and walked around the store looking at the normal people.

Fast forward to October 6th. My admittance to the hospital was a bit different. I'd intended on entering by way of the morgue, but that didn't work out. Thank the heavens. Even though living in my present reality hurts me deeply, I do see the beauty around me. My children. I am grateful to be here for my children. The fact I now have to share them with her...yeah, that sucks.

My therapist has instructed me to limit my contact with him. I'd asked her advice on how I could spur along this whole "letting go" thing. That was Tuesday. The urges to text, call, and go see him have overwhelmed me, but I've resisted. He texted this morning with a request to have our homeschooled son give him a call. I overheard bits of their conversation, his voice like a razor to my pale skin. I heard him ask if he wanted to go to the movies. I wondered if he'd invite Bambi and her brood same as when he took my kids (and hers) to see Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs 2.

How do I stop wondering? How do I stop torturing myself with "what if" questions? How do I stop the flood of pictures in my brain, all starring her plastered against him? How do I let go of my partner of twenty years? How do I let go of my friendship with her? How do I move on?

Violet

*Bambi - not her real name but it makes me smile to type it. I need smiles wherever and however I can find them.

To celebrate "The Vampire's Submissive" being relisted on Amazon, I'm giving it away for the next five days! Pick up your free copy here. I hope you'll download Katy and Jackson's story and leave a review on Amazon. The poor darling doesn't have a single review. Thank you so much, and I hope you enjoy their story.

Wednesday, October 16, 2013

Over the last couple of days, I've talked a lot about my story, The Vampire's Submissive. Since Katy and Jackson's story is back on Amazon, I'd like to share an excerpt. Enjoy!

The Vampire's Submissive
by Violet Gray

The streetlamp
flickered and popped, plunging the corner of the cobbled sidewalk into darkness.
Creepy much? Katy Foster locked the door to Bebe’s Bookshop and peered
over her shoulder. The fine hairs at the nape of her neck prickled. “Stop it.
You’re being silly, Katy,” she chastised herself under her breath.

The scent of
coffee and pie wafted through the air. Maybe she could dart into Moe’s across
the street and scare away the heebie jeebies with a mocha and a slice of pecan
pie. No, she needed to get home. That paper on gender roles in contemporary
romance literature wouldn’t write itself. The street lamps flickered and a
whiff of cigarette smoke irritated her sinuses, but she didn’t see anyone.
Moving quickly, she walked toward the city parking lot, suddenly desperate to
be safe inside her little red banger.

Nothing bad
ever happened in Sweetwater.

Oh, damn,
now she’d done it. Anytime a character in a book said those words,
something bad inevitably happened. Shuddering, she tightened her grip on her
car keys and shivered in spite of the wool coat wrapped around her size
eighteen frame. Where was everyone tonight? The street was terribly quiet, even
if it was ten o’clock on a Monday night. She neared the alley between
Sweetwater Hardware and Billy’s Guitar Shop.

Smoke, thick
and putrid, curled and danced its way out of the alley. Okay, that was weird.
Hurrying, she held her breath and dashed past the opening to the alley. An arm
snaked out of the smoke and grabbed her around the throat. In her mind, she was
screaming, but no sound escaped. He dragged her backwards into the alley, and
she gagged as his oily, filthy scent invaded her nostrils. Oh, god, she was
going to die. He threw her onto the ground and knelt over her, pressing a knife
against her neck. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

“Please! Let
me go!”

He laughed.
“You ain’t going nowhere. You’re a fat one, but I don’t mind.” He reached down
and pressed his hand against her knee.

She scooted
backward, a scream finally breaking free. “Help me!”

“Shut up!”

He hit her
across the face and she saw stars flash behind her eyelids. The dirty ground
scraped against her legs, bared by her cute floaty deep red skirt. She’d made
it herself. It would be ruined.

“No,” she
whimpered, disbelieving this was happening to her. A nightmare. She was caught
in a nightmare. “Help me! Oh, god, help me!” He struck her again.

In the moment
before blackness consumed her, she thought she saw Jackson Wainwright’s perfect
face.

Jackson
Wainwright heard the cries for help from several blocks away. Taking off at a
run, his nightly jog for serenity forgotten, he followed the sound of her
pleas. She sounded familiar. Keep calling, baby. Keep calling. Her cries
would distract her attacker, giving him the element of surprise. Not that he
actually needed it. His incisors had descended the moment her first plea for
help had pierced the night. He ran past Bebe’s and he knew he’d found her. He
could smell her sweet scent. The dark curling smoke gave him a moment’s pause.
Non-human. Probably demon. And not the gentlemanly sort like his best friend,
William. He heard him hit her and then he was on him, just as she fell back
against the ground, her head striking the filthy asphalt.

Sonofabitch.

Jackson
wrapped one arm around the demon’s chest and used his other hand to rip the
beast’s head from his shoulders. For a heartbeat, the head glared at him, then
head and body transformed into ash. Wiping the disgusting soot from his hands
onto his shorts, he knelt beside her. He recognized her beautiful, heart shaped
face at once.

Katy.

Dammit.

She was
unconscious but breathing. The demon had bloodied her lip and a huge bruise had
already begun to form on her right cheekbone. He didn’t want to frighten her,
but he needed to get her out of there in case the thing had friends lurking
about. He could take her home, doctor her up. Or, he could take her to the
hospital. Much as he wanted to keep her close by, he knew she might be
frightened if she woke up in his home.

They were
passing acquaintances, seeing as how he shopped often in Bebe’s. Always at
night. He’d admired her from afar for two years but something about her kept
him from asking her out. Her fragility perhaps. A docile flower like Katy
wouldn’t be comfortable with his dark needs.

Hospital, he
decided.

Lifting her
easily into his arms, he held her close, trying not to notice her lush breast
pressed against his chest. Fail. Her thick wavy blonde hair--he’d bet it was
natural--flowed over his arm and down her back. Thank god he’d gotten to her in
time. If that bastard had succeeded in hurting her, Jackson would have spent a
great deal more time killing him. As it was, the sonofabitch was lucky he’d
killed him quick.

Walking two
streets over and then three more blocks north, the hospital came into view. He
headed straight for the emergency entrance and recognized Kyle Porter, the
night guard. “Kyle, this is Katy Foster. She was attacked in the alley between
Billy’s and the hardware store.”

“Goddamnit,”
Kyle muttered, holding the door open for Jackson. “Did you catch the guy who
did it?”

“He got away
while I was checking on her,” Jackson said, the lie rolling off his tongue.

“The police
will want a statement.”

“Yeah, I’ll
hang around.” Fisting his hands at his sides, he wished he could kill the demon
all over again.

The police
came and took his statement, along with his description of her attacker. Should
he go home, or should he wait and see if she needed a ride? Would they keep her
overnight? Was she conscious? The questions crowded his brain but none could
quiet the rage, the innate urge to kill. He needed to talk to Alexander, head
of the vampire council for Mississippi. Alexander needed to know about the
attack as well as the very real possibility that more demons had descended on
the small Southern town. Jackson ran a hand through his mussed dark brown hair.
If only they would tell him something, let him know she was okay.

“Mr.
Wainwright?” A nurse beckoned him. She led him through a secure door, and he
followed her past several curtained rooms. When she stopped, he drew a subtle
breath. Mixed with the strong odor of antiseptic was Katy’s unique scent.
Wildflowers and a summer breeze.

“She’s
asking for you,” the nurse said. “It’s against policy seeing as you aren’t
family, but she’s become rather vocal.”

Katy? Vocal?
That didn’t sound right. She was so soft spoken at the bookshop. “She
recognized me in the alley? I wasn’t sure.”

“Yes, she knew
you were the one who saved her. She wants to thank you. Since she doesn’t have
any next of kin for us to call, we can have a police officer take her home…”

“I’ll do it.”

The nurse
nodded, satisfied Katy would be in good hands, and walked briskly to the desk
in the center of the ER.

He pulled back
the curtain and stepped inside the small room. Her mouth looked much better now
that the blood had been cleaned off. How he’d managed not to bite her earlier,
he had no idea. Fear and rage must have drowned out the hunger. Plus, he’d
eaten bagged blood a few hours before, so he’d been sated when he found her.

“Katy?” he
whispered. Her eyes were closed.

She opened
them and tried to smile. “Ouch,” she said, touching her fingers to her injured
mouth.

“Are you all
right? Oh, god, that’s a stupid question. Of course, you’re not all right.
You’ve had a terrible scare.”

“It would’ve
been worse, Jackson, if you hadn’t stopped him. I thought it was you…I wasn’t
certain…I only saw you for a moment and then everything went black. Did you
catch him? The man who tried to…I’m sorry, I can’t say it.”

He moved to
stand beside her and brushed a curl from her forehead. “You don’t have to say
it, Katy. No, I didn’t catch him, but they will. I gave a good description.
Katy?”

“Yes?”

Damn but her
blue eyes were the most beautiful he’d ever seen. “Do you have a roommate?”

She shook her
head. “No, I live in my Aunt Agatha’s house over on Cherry. When she died a
couple of years ago, she left the house to me. That’s when I moved here.”

He nodded. “I
ask, because I don’t think you should be alone right now. You’re safe, of
course, but I’d feel better knowing you weren’t alone. Is there someone you
could call?”

“Oh, I don’t
want to bother anyone, and I don’t have family here. Or anywhere for that
matter.” She wrapped her arms around herself protectively.

“The way I see
it, you’ve got two options.” He held up a finger. “One. Stay at my place for a
few days.” He held up two fingers. “Two. Let me stay at your house. Just so
you’re not alone while you’re recovering.”

She shook her
head. “Oh, but, Jackson, I don’t want to be any trouble…”

Typical
Southern response. Tucking his hands in his front pockets, he shifted his
weight onto one leg and gave her what he hoped was a reassuring smile. “It’s
settled then. We’ll go by your place so you can pick up some of your things,
then you’ll stay with me. A week minimum.”

She smiled
ever so slightly and nodded her head before letting it flop back on the pillow,
exhausted. “Thank you, Jackson.”

Anything
for you, he wanted to say, but he didn’t dare. Now, here’s hoping he could
keep his hands—and his teeth—to himself.

Text copyright Violet Gray. Copying of any kind is prohibited except by express written permission from Violet Gray. Thank you for respecting this author's rights.

Yesterday morning, I received an email from Amazon's Kindle support letting me know my story, "The Vampire's Submissive," had been removed from their catalog due to content violation(s). I wasn't surprised. I'd read that Amazon and other booksellers were in the process of sweeping self-published erotic romance and erotica out of their doors.

The email indicated I could make changes to my description and content and resubmit. I didn't do so right away. Instead, I fumed, pouted, and whined, no doubt driving the Twitterverse crazy.

Finally, I realized I had a decision to make. I could make the changes Amazon required or I could list my book elsewhere. I opted to stay with Amazon. Why? I can't be sure. Gut instinct, really. I tweaked my keywords and toned down the opening scene. I know. I caved. I don't feel great about that. Believe me. However, I don't feel the changes lessened the story in any way, as they were quite minor.Will Amazon take it back down again? I don't know. Maybe. Maybe not. For now, Katy and Jackson's story is available for fans of erotic romance to enjoy. I hope you'll pick up a copy.

Tuesday, October 15, 2013

I had enrolled this story in the Kindle select program, so it is not available anywhere else at this time. I hesitate to upload it to Kobo or Barnes & Noble, as I've read that they, too, are using giant brooms to sweep erotic romance and erotica out the door.

I honestly don't know what to do. I've spent plenty of money on covers for this story, as well as three others, two of which have not been released. My novella, Submitting to Ethan, has not yet been banned by Amazon, but I'm sure it will be any minute now.

Why? Because in the description I am honest about the contents of my book:

MATURE READERS 18+ ONLY

WARNING: This book contains rape fantasies and scenes of "forced"
sex. If you are sensitive to this type of writing, please do not buy
this book. In no way does this book condone the crime of rape. This book
includes the following elements: graphic erotic language, explicit sex,
anal sex, spanking, BDSM, and a loving D/s relationship.

I write stories as a means of feeling in control and to give myself (past and present) a Voice. Since I am no longer welcome on Amazon, I will have to find another way of sharing my stories.

Sunday, October 13, 2013

Sold into slavery as a
child, and rendered mute by the horrors she suffered, Clara’s life
extends no further than the castle kitchens and their garden. Those who
know about her just think of her as the dull mute girl who may be a
little soft in the head, not knowing that she carries within herself a
precious gift: the ability to see the future. This is a gift she keeps
secret, though, for fear of persecution.

However, a vision prompts
her to prevent a murder, shoving her not only into the intrigues and
gilded life of the nobility, but also into a civil war brewing in her
country. As events unfold, and she is drawn deeper into the conflict,
she meets an old friend, makes a new one, and begins to unearth secrets
better left buried.

Driven to learn the truth about the war, and
about her friends, Clara embarks on a journey that takes her from her
beloved mountains to the very Capital itself, Bertrand, where she is
confronted by an evil both ancient and twisted. The only problem is, her
own anger and prejudices are the catalysts her enemy needs to complete
its plans.

If she is not careful, not only will the entire nation be
lost, but her own soul as well.Amazon: http://www.amazon.com/Clara-ebook/dp/B00F8VESKESmashwords: https://www.smashwords.com/books/view/358876Barnes and Noble: http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/clara-suzanna-j-linton/1116995336?ean=2940045291415

Ilona begins to remember the forgotten instructions concealed as
rhymes her mother was teaching her since she was a small child. She
discovers that she can heal with her bare hands; she can rearrange the
human body to its healthy state. This magical ability is exciting as well as frightening. A sinister dark man appears. Ilona connects his presence with the series of mysterious
deaths around her. With the help of Zoltan, they uncover ancient tribal
secrets that not only can change her future but the future existence of
the Huns as well.

What readers say about this epic fantasy series peppered with magical powers, mysterious ancient secrets, time travel and romantic twists.

“The story flows smoothly with the introduction of many new "gifts" and
a twist of fate. Everything is done with attention to detail, even historical notes!” -Cynthia J. Smith

“Erika M Szabo has the ability to draw the reader into the story by weaving fact and fiction together and make it believable.” -Seelk

“I got astonished when I noticed feelings emerging in me similar to
those of the characters - longing, wishing to know secrets and annoyed
about not getting to know them yet. It was brilliant. I insensibly got
immersed in the story.” –Skaiste

Guess what? It's Christmas at my house! Hmm, actually I think it's better than Christmas. My two titles, Submitting to Ethan and The Vampire's Submissive, have sparkly new covers from the exquisitely talented, Niina Cord, and I couldn't be happier. I'm tickled pink. Pleased as punch. Well, you get the idea.

A self-published author via the Amazon Kindle platform, I originally created my own covers using Amazon's beta cover creator. These amateur covers failed to convey the tone, theme, and content of my stories. As my son would say, they were lame-tastic. Something had to be done. Relying on my good friend, Google, I searched for eBook designers. Not sure why I clicked on Niina's link first. Divine providence perhaps.

Niina's cover form on her site was easy to use and hit on all the important details needed for creation of a fabulous cover. Niina contacted me right away and let me know when she could begin work. I didn't have to wait very long at all. I accepted the first drafts of both covers, because...well, look at them...they're more perfect than a spoon and a bowl of buttercream frosting.

Niina also designed my Facebook banner, which you can see here. I'd love for you to add me as a friend if you're on Facebook! Ooh, and if you are as addicted to Twitter as I am, I'd love for you to follow me.

If you're an author looking for a book cover design which will make you (and your readers) swoon, Niina is your girl. Tell her Violet sent you. :-)

Tuesday, October 8, 2013

Welcome to my itty bitty blog. I'm so glad you are here. If you scroll down a bit, you'll find posts on my two self-published titles, Submitting to Ethan and "The Vampire's Submissive." I'd love for you to give them a read, and if you do, I'd be honored if you would leave a review on Amazon. Thank you!

*sighs*

I want to try to express my reason for writing erotic romance. I've been sitting here staring at the screen for half an hour. As it turns out, writing fiction is far easier than explaining the why behind the story.

Why do I I feel the need to share my motivation for writing erotic tales? The compulsion probably has something to do with being raised in a strict Christian household where such stories would have been considered shameful.

As a child, my young body was abused and derided by my mother and defiled by my father. Don't all mothers call their six-year-old daughters whores? Don't all fathers fondle and rape their little girls? This was my mindset as a child. Abuse and pain were normal, every day things for me, as ordinary as corn flakes in the morning and the moon in the sky in the evening. I was taught to behave at all costs, and every minor infraction resulted in severe punishment. I was taught to fear my parents' wrath, and they became god-like in my young brown eyes.

I recall my father digging a hole in the backyard one summer afternoon. He made my little brother write the letters RIP on a sheet of white paper. Daddy told me to climb in the hole and my brother held my mock gravestone above my head. Terrified, I worried Daddy would cover me up with the pile of dirt. How would I breathe? Would I die? Did he want me to be dead? My mother took a Polaroid of my dad with his shovel, my brother with my gravestone, and me lying in the hole, too frightened to move. My parents laughed at their joke and my daddy reached into my grave and pulled me out. I dusted the clay dirt from my shorts and ran inside, eager to push the memory into the far reaches of my mind.

The memory of my grave kept company with all the other bad memories, and it's only through therapy that I've begun to reclaim them. Up until three years ago, much of my childhood and teen years remained a giant void, a black hole of terror. When friends would ask, "Remember when we...?" I would shake my head in confusion, having no recollection and wondering why so much of my life was inaccessible in my memory.

While I endured physical, verbal, and emotional abuse at the hands of both parents, my father's choice to sexually abuse me left the deepest wounds, the ugliest scars. Last fall, I confronted him...sort of. I wasn't brave enough to drive three states away and knock on his door. I am still far too afraid of him. I sent him an email. He came back with a message proclaiming his unconditional love. He expressed his regret that I was mentally ill and encouraged me to find Jesus. He denied ever having touched me. I broke apart. I'd needed him to say he was sorry. Instead, he took my Truth and stamped it into the dirt. Worse still, my sister took his side.

Sexual abuse at my father's hands left me feeling broken, dirty, and damaged. My fear of sex and my difficulty enduring intercourse destroyed my marriage a little bit at a time until finally my husband requested a separation two and a half years ago. We are currently waiting for our divorce to be final. I believe my father harmed me sexually as a way of exerting his power. I have no doubt he was abused in some way when he was a child. I can't change his childhood. I can't change mine. Instead, I chose to change me. I chose to break the cycle of abuse and to give my children the childhood I could only dream of as a little girl.

While enduring my father's sexual abuse, I had no control, no power, no Voice. I could only endure and hope that he wouldn't kill me.

No control. No power. No Voice.

I've been in therapy for quite awhile, and I'm making progress. I no longer run when I see a man with graying hair, glasses and a beard. I shudder, but I don't run. Baby steps.

For a long time, I couldn't even talk about sex during therapy. Now, I can. And, I've found I can write about it, as well.

Why write about sex?

Control. Power. Voice.

When I write erotic scenes, I am in control. I have all the power. I have a Voice.

You will see a scene of attempted rape by a villain in my short story, "The Vampire's Submissive." I was in control of that scene. I saved the heroine. She had a Voice, and she was heard. Help came.

In Submitting to Ethan, Rose fantasizes about being raped by her best friend, Ethan. Again, I was in control. I wrote the scene as an expression of her fantasy. No, Rose does not wish to be raped in reality. She only wants the fantasy with a safe partner. Many women share Rose's fantasy. Myself included. Sound strange? In my fantasy, I control who I am having sex with and what they are doing to me. I direct the action. I am in control. I have all the power. I have a Voice.

Control. Power. Voice. Writing erotic stories provides me with these three things I so desperately need to continue being who I am. A Survivor.

I don't want
to write a memoir. Just something. Some words put down on paper or hammered out on the keyboard. I'm not looking to pen a nonfiction retelling of the past twenty years and all the ways I fucked up. No, I much prefer weaving bits and pieces of myself into
my fiction, hidden carefully so no one who knows me will suspect the neuroses belong to me.

Thankfully, He doesn't know my pen name, so I suppose I can
write whatever I please, whenever I like. Let's start now.

He and I signed divorce papers on Wednesday, September 25th. 61 days later,
we'll be divorced. Happy Fucking Thanksgiving, to me.

Twenty years of marriage deleted, splattered with
Wite Out, bleached out like a blemish on His finely lined forehead. When I asked him if it felt like a big deal...signing away
twenty years of our lives, he replied, "No, not really. But then I don't
get all emotional about stuff."

Too true. And I, of course, am too
emotional: one of the reasons he wanted a divorce in the first place. I believe his words were something like, "I'm sick of riding the *emotional roller coaster. I want off."

What I didn't understand was the timing. Why live with an emotional roller coaster (me) for twenty years then suddenly decide you want to hop off the ride?

So you know, I'm not usually this cynical, but if I don't learn to laugh at myself and scoff at his reasoning, I'll go insane.
Then there is his choice of new woman. One of my best friends. Or, so I
thought.

Let's call her Bambi.

Bambi and I became fast friends at age twelve on the first day
of that well-known horror called junior high. For the next eight years, we shared crushes, cookie dough,
and clothes. We fixed each other's hair and make-up. We argued over who
was the hottest New Kid on the Block. When one of us asked if the new dress our mom bought made us look like the world's biggest nerd, we lied and said, "Of course not! You should be on the cover of Seventeen."

We exchanged secrets and vowed to carry them to our graves. She's the only person who didn't think my infatuation with and determination to marry Him was a futile quest. She believed, right along with me, that one day he'd be standing at the altar watching me walk up the aisle. We both knew he would totally rock a tux. I met Him in seventh grade study hall. We were twelve. I had bad hair, bad skin, and braces. He had the most amazing hazel eyes I'd ever seen. Then, he smiled. And I fell.

Four years later, he succumbed to my charms. Okay, so more likely, he was simply tired of saying, "Please stop following me around like a puppy dog." Yes, I was that pathetic. He was my first boyfriend and my last. My first kiss and my last.

Three years later, the **monster I called, "Daddy," walked me down the aisle. Bambi was my bridesmaid. Two years later, I was
hers.

Funny thing is, I'm not hurt by his choice of shiny new girlfriend. I'm hurt by her choice, her decision to set aside the sisterhood of friendship and fall into his arms.

You see, friendships became my life raft over this past year. On October 6, 2012, I decided to die. Why? Because he said we were never, ever, ever getting back together. I told myself a dead mother is better than a depressed mother, and I started writing letters. I prepared myself to walk away from life, my kids, everything, because He walked away from me.

Yeah, I know I was stupid, but thanks for verifying it.

I swallowed every pill I could find. In the backyard, He had set up a tent to test its waterproof-ness. I climbed inside and laid down, presumably for the last time. I don't remember anything else. I'm told he came home with our kids. They saw me weaving through the house. Next stop: ER. I recall drinking charcoal. Beyond that, I have no recollection of October 6-9th. My first moment of clarity came in the hospital on October 10th: "Well, damn. Guess that didn't work."

A few days later, still in the hospital, I began to feel grateful. I couldn't fathom why I was still here, but I decided to have a go at the Life thing one more time. And here I am, one year later, still giving Life a go.

Violet Gray

*emotional roller coaster - His term for bipolar disorder, which I have.
**monster - the man who abused me sexually, physically, verbally, and emotionally

Friday, October 4, 2013

I'm thrilled to share with you the news of my latest story, Submitting to Ethan. Like most of the stories I write, Submitting to Ethan began with a scene playing out in my head. This opening scene draws the reader into Rose White's world, a world in which she hides behind baggy clothes and pretends to be sexless. One night, during a playful interlude with her hunky best friend, Ethan, she experiences her first spanking. This single event sparks the beginning of a loving D/s relationship which will leave their lives and their friendship forever changed.

From Amazon.com:
Rose White's relationship with her best friend, Ethan Pierce, hasn't
changed much over the years, until one night when Ethan surprises her
with her first spanking. Both aroused beyond all control, they give in
to a night of passionate lovemaking. When Ethan confesses his deep dark
secret, Rose is shocked. Her Ethan is a dominant, and he wants her to be
his submissive.

In the midst of her training, Rose must make a confession of her
own. She's been getting nasty threats against her life for the past two
weeks at work. Ethan will do everything in his power to keep her safe,
but when the stalker is revealed, Rose's trust in Ethan is shaken. Can
he win her back, or is their friendship a thing of the past?

"Submitting to Ethan" is a 28,000 word novella.

Reader advisory: This book contains rape fantasies and scenes of
"forced" sex. If you are sensitive to this type of writing, please do
not buy this book. In no way does this book condone the crime of rape.

This book includes the following elements: graphic language,
explicit sex, anal sex, spanking, BDSM, and a loving D/s relationship.

Excerpt:

He wasn’t
coming.

Why hadn’t he
called? I should call. He might be sick or hurt or… No. He probably got busy at
work and time slipped away. Or maybe he hooked up with Gina, his on again,
off again. No doubt, right about now, she was on him--again. Ugh.

Since Ethan
wouldn’t be seeing me, I took off my playing-it-safe baggy T-shirt and
sweatpants and slipped on my favorite lime green cami. Almost sheer and super
thin, the fabric clung to my full breasts and did very little in the way of
covering my dark rosy nipples. Not bothering with bottoms, I flopped tummy
first onto my antique four poster bed, my black lace boy shorts riding up a bit
to show off the underside of my fleshy butt cheeks.

Blowing out a
breath, I caught myself staring at the phone. I should call him, if for no
other reason than to ask his advice about the creepy notes, flowers, and candy
I’d been receiving at work for the past two weeks. No, I wouldn’t call. He’d
think I was being all needy. Which I was. Ugh!

I’d read.
Maybe that would take my mind off things.

No way was I
turning on the TV. I’d only miss him more.

Tuesday nights
were supposed to be about me and my bestie since kindergarten lying on my bed,
having pillow fights, and watching Twilight Zone reruns until we fell asleep.

Wetness
drenched my panties. I fought the urge to get myself off with my trust
vibrator. No. Ethan would never see me that way. I gave up hoping a long
time ago. Okay, maybe I still have a little hope. Yes, I am an idiot.

I dragged my
copy of Jane Eyre off the nightstand. I liked to read it and imagine
Ethan as Mr. Rochester and me as Jane. Only, my Mr. Rochester would turn me
over his knee and give me a long, hard spanking anytime he felt like it. I’ve
never actually been spanked, but I sure have dreamed about it. Turning the page
I’d dog-eared last night, I lost myself in their world.

The bed dipped
and I shrieked. Fear lanced through me. Why hadn’t I heard the door open?

I sighed in
relief. Ethan. He sat beside me on my side of the bed, his perfect ass bumping
up against my round waistline.

I looked him
up and down. His dark brown hair, wavy and mussed. His face darkened with
stubble. His steel gray eyes pinning me, a deer in headlights. He wore a tight
white T-shirt which molded itself to his muscled chest and did all sorts of
wonderful things to my tummy. And my pussy. His jeans were snug against his
hips and muscled thighs. His feet were bare. No wonder I hadn’t heard him come
in the room. He had a key to my apartment, so he’d slipped in easily. I quickly glanced at the clock. Ten minutes until
nine o’clock. “You’re late,” I accused him.

“Sorry,
sweetie. I had to take a client to dinner.” Ethan was the head of a successful
PR firm located in downtown Memphis. He always reserved Tuesday nights for us,
so I’m guessing this was a pretty important client.

I stuck my
bottom lip out in what I hoped was a pretty pout.

Ethan stood
then leaned in close. He lifted his large tanned hand and brought it down hard
on my left ass cheek.

Squealing, I
reached back to cover my sore bottom, protecting it from another assault.

“What was that for?” I asked,
more aroused than I’d ever been in my life. I felt the flood of moisture
seeping from my pussy. Please don’t look at my panties, I begged him
silently. He’d see how wet they were, and then I’d be humiliated. Humiliated
because no way he’ll ever want me the way I want him.

I’m not
exactly Ethan’s type. I’m only five feet, five inches, and tiny I am not. I’ve
tried to lose weight, but the extra curves appear to be here to stay. I’ve
always looked like this. I’ve always hated it, too.